


On the appeal of forgiveness

by zort



Category: Slipknot (Band)
Genre: BDSM, Biting, Breathplay, Dubious Consent, M/M, Masochism, PWP, Sadism, Scratching, Shameless Smut, Sharing a Bed, Slapping, Under-negotiated Kink, like really really under-negociated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:08:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24496240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zort/pseuds/zort
Summary: Chris can't sleep but he still wants to get horizontal, so when he finds a bed that's half free he takes the opportunity, and the lead a little later when a boner pokes him awake.
Relationships: Chris Fehn/Craig Jones
Comments: 12
Kudos: 22





	On the appeal of forgiveness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dysphorie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dysphorie/gifts).



> Right so I like writing fic for people (as in y'know if you wanna Slipknot fic just ask : [on my Tumblr here](https://incredizort.tumblr.com)) and Dysphorie wanted Dubcon and... well that kinda ran into Chris's terribly masochistic self. What i'm trying to say is don't do this at home and for the love of fuck TALK to your favorite bedmate(s).
> 
> Also there's a bit of follow up in the end note, because i could.

Chris wonders how it goes with other bands. Or he doesn't really since there are like 4 bedrooms and a sofa. Not that it matters all that much, half the band doesn't sleep for various reasons, or are vampires and sleep during the day, and so they make it work. Still, it's gotta be nice knowing there's a space that's all yours and that won't stink of anybody else's feet but yours, or where you can be pretty sure nobody's going to walk in on you doing whatever. And it's not even about jerking off, well not only about that.

Anyway, he's cold and in a bit of a conundrum as it's stupid o'clock in the morning, all the rooms are taken and he kinda sorta maybe would like to get horizontal and contemplate the ceiling, see how he might get some shut eyes. Except some rooms are going to be more welcoming than others, and not only because some of his band mates take up more space than others.

He has a fairly good idea who's out partying, who's drinking or already comatose from alcohol poisoning, and who's gone back to the place he's rented away from you crazy fuckers. But that doesn't really tell him where he can safely crash for the 2 or 3 hours of night that are still left. It's not like he can do the smell-check on each of the beds so as to get to the one that may have only been pissed in once.

So there's door number one and here's to hoping he picked well. The handle turns noiselessly and he slowly pulls the door open, glancing inside and letting out a silent huff of relief. 

Somebody's breathing a bit loudly, but no snoring and isn't that a wonder in and of itself. Plus there's no duvet hogging which is obviously a plus, seeing as he's really fucking cold now he's in walking distance to an actual, warm duvet.

He drops his tee-shirt, jeans and boxers all in a pile, somewhere on the way to the unoccupied side of the bed and buries himself in the not very fresh sheets. It's still a very pleasant feeling. He sighs and slowly feels how his body heat warms up the duvet, and lets the cold gradually melt out of his bones. 

The ceiling is about as fascinating as usual. He isn't doing any sort of effort to reign in his thoughts. His breathing slows down. He's savouring the warmth.

Between one breath and the next he doesn't notice he's fallen asleep.

He wakes up to being spooned and feeling both a warm breath against his nape and a morning boner against his ass. 

This is nice.

Chris knows what the rest of the band calls him when he's not too close to hear -apparently someone's informed them on politeness- and the thing is that for the most part they're absolutely right about him. He knows and he's gonna do exactly what they think he would do.

How convenient that he's already naked and oh hello he's got his own morning wood. He grinds back and feels the arm tightening around him before there's a soft sound and huff close to his ear. He rolls around ending up mostly on top of his bandmate 

"Hey Craig…"

He watches with a smirk as eyes flutter open and squint up valiantly to try and identify whoever's pinning him to the mattress. He wouldn't say this is sexy, but he enjoys it anyway especially as something that looks like a variety of worry gradually settles over the other guy's features.

"I- Chris?" Craig's face only grows more confused and uncomfortable. "Did w-" He starts then closes his eyes. One hand getting up to his face and rubbing at the bridge of his nose, his voice comes muffled from underneath. "I'm pretty sure I didn't drink yesterday..."

"You asking me? Cuz I wouldn't know really…" Chris does an attempt at toning down the predatory in his voice, but the way Craig scowls he's probably failed at it. Giving a mental shrug, he moves a bit, letting Craig feel his hard on and adds: "If it's any help, your morning breath isn't worse than usual…"

There's a hand pushing on his chest now, but he's not going anywhere. Besides he can still feel the warmth of Craig's own hard on still very present against his hip.

"I mean, you just poked me with your boner…" 

The look on Craig's face isn't what Chris'd call convinced but what can you do, some people just don't know how good they have it. Leaning down he drops a kiss to Craig's collarbone and feels fingers tangling into his hair, pulling. Pulling harder, hard enough he can't keep the wince off his face.

"Chris, this- I-" But Craig never gets further, because Chris is pushing two fingers in his mouth fully aware that this is going to hurt. He hisses when Craig bites down on them, hard. 

He doesn't pull them back. Craig doesn't relent.

Chris's cock sends massive memos to the rest of everything that it will be keeping all the blood thank you very much. And Craig slaps him, on the arm that is currently trapped in his mouth.

Through gritted teeth, Chris grumbles, "F'you don't let go, I dun see how I'm gonna get'em outa your mouth…"

Craig rolls his eyes but unclenches his teeth, Chris takes it as an invitation to put his tongue in there instead. He tastes blood pretty much instantly and feels Craig sucking on his tongue before biting down a second time. Chris isn't sure who's bucking into who right now, doesn't care much to be perfectly honest, the friction is glorious, and gets interrupted again by another smack, to his thigh this time, half muffled by the duvet that's still mostly over them.

This isn't very informative but Chris doesn't really need directions right now. Sitting up, he pushes the cover back enough for some maneuvering space and hooks his fingers into the band of Craig's boxers. He's about to do some undressing, but is momentarily stopped by the fist that connects to his jaw. His head snaps up and pain seers over his mouth where his teeth cut into his lower lip. It flashes right down to his cock and he loses track of what he was doing.

Blood dribbles over his chin and he's pulled down by his hair so that a warm tongue can lick his neck and chin and lip. He jerks and grinds down at the teeth in his lip, and his fingers curl around Craig's shoulder pushing back because because fuck this is so good and oh yeah, he remenbers now.

"C'mon…" 

Craig's face is a study in frustrated lust. And Chris wants to take a photo to jerk off to later but he wants to get to his cock a lot more and this time he manages to pull the underwear down a bit, like enough to get to Craig's very hard, very hot, very pretty cock. His mouth waters at the sight, or something's still bleeding, at any rate he feels more liquid going down his face.

"Fuck, y-" He's interrupted again by a slap to the shoulder, open and smarting. He moans and forgets entirely that he was trying to get Craig naked. His fingers grip at the band of Craig's boxers, out of stubbornness more than anything and he holds on for dear life. Because one of Craig's hands is around his neck now and, holy damn, he doesn't need to breathe but maybe kinda a little, to coordinate at the very least. And Craig's unrelenting, teeth and fingers pinching and twisting hard, and the grip on his throat that is just not letting go and Chris can't, fuck, can't get the goddamn coordination to grab Craig's cock.

"The fuck you think you're doing?" 

Craig sounds rightfully pissed, though his grip on Chris's neck eases up enough that Chris can take a shuddering breath and get his hand on Craig's cock, hard and warm and leaking and… well he can't be too pissed then.

"Tryin'a fuck…" That earns him a hard, open slap to the thigh, and he hisses, feeling his lip protest and pretty sure he'll be able to see the shape of Craig's hand later. The shudder that comes with the thought is all over and undeniable. "C'mon, Craig, man…"

“You’re such a goddamn whore...”

And Chris hears the sneer in his tone and he wants to argue but Craig's leaned up, or pulled him down or, anyway he's biting at his lips again and Chris winces and grinds into Craig until there's acceptable friction against his cock, their cocks and- Oh fuck him, he's whining, loud and needy and all into Craig's fingers that got in his mouth apparently.

Teeth clamp into his shoulder hard, and the hold on his neck tightens again and Chris’s body does that thing that’s half-freezing and half-going jello, eyes tightly shut and slobbering all over Craig’s fingers. The bite on his shoulder is unrelenting, as is the grip on his throat, there're static and bees fighting for dominance in his brain and Chris feels so fucking ridiculously empty. That makes no sense, except of course it does, because fuck knows he's been trying, but Craig is still not actually fucking him, though he did get on board to fucking with him, which probably counts for something, maybe, though Chris isn't sure cuz who woulda thought but breathing is in fact important and he can't, he can't-

Oxygen feels like a pain all of its own when Craig releases his hold, enough that Chris thinks he might drown in it. The vibrant pulsating hurt in his shoulder, against the sorta spreading burn in his lungs, and he almost misses the way Craig's moving under him, and he's not alone anymore to hold his cock and, oooh, yeah all that spit's not lost after all.

"T'least, we all know you dun fucking need any prep…" That smarts, even if it's probably a fair assessment, for a given value of needing at any rate. Chris doesn't care, if he didn't want it he wouldn't have punched all of Craig's buttons at the same time.

And his brain shortcuts because there's a couple of fingers pushing in, not fast but not careful either, in and out a few times and Chris isn't sure suddenly if people don't just explode from that much lust. It's electrical and overpowering and he barely gives himself enough time to take a breath before he's forcing himself down on Craig's cock.

The sound he lets out is so keen, it can't be heard, or it's just him so overstimulated he forgot how to process things. Or not. Because he can see Craig's face and it's got that exact expression of lust and viciousness, the one that Chris's been after, the one that may end up in actual injury, but fuck it'll be so worth it. He wants to move but he's still transfixed with how fucking painful it is to get cock up his ass with so little prep.

It's obvious though that Craig's ready to move on and doesn't care very much whether Chris overestimated himself or not, which is kinda the point really. There are nails dragging along Chris's thighs hard, right before they get into his cock and it's all he can do not to owl. But it gets him back enough to move his hips along to Craig's thrusts. And the pace gets frantic and shallow cuz of course there's way too much friction and really not enough anything else. And Chris thinks maybe he can stave off his orgasm for a beat, only for Craig to curl his fingers around his neck again. The burn of not being able to suck in any air is all it takes, and he's coming hard, full body arched, rigid with way too much to process.

And, and… an- nothing.

When he comes to, he's on his back and he aches from pretty much everywhere though his ass is clearly clamoring for getting the gold medal, but he's also still half high so it can't have been that long.

"Fucker…"

Chris resents having to try and move his head, he still does though, finds Craig wiping his chest with a towel. He grins, and winces because his lip definitely protests. 

"C'mon… T'was fun…" But Craig doesn't smile back, doesn't even look satisfied. He holds the towel up and Chris has no idea what the problem is. "Aww fuck, man, y'didn't get off?"

And Craig slaps him on the thigh, not really hard but pain flares bright hot and his cock sends a memo that yes ok but not now. Chris is fucking confused, and he's pretty sure he's gonna come crashing any minute now and he'd like to cuddle for that. He makes a questioning sound and vague little finger motions. 

"Would it kill you to ask for things? Like Chris, fuck… you passed out," Craig moves the towel again, "and your ass's bleeding… Like, did it occur to you I don't actually want to injure you?"

Of course Chris has been informed that his sense of humour is terrible, multiple times really, but he can't help it, though he tries to reign in the shit-eating smile that comes with his answer. "I mean-"

But Craig slaps him again, with the towel this time and there's really no strength to it. "Holy shit, shut up! You didn't fucking try to make this a joke!"

Laughing lowly, like his voice is currently fucked for some reason, Chris drops his head back down on the bed and holds his hands up somewhat. 

"Fine, I won't but c'me here...please, yeah?" The last of it is mangled with the yawn that overtakes his face, and the low whine from his lip protesting that motion vigorously. But he feels Craig move next to him on the bed until he's gathered nice and warm into his embrace, and he sighs happily.

"Sorry I didn't ask you to fuck me raw…" Craig makes a half disbelieving snort and Chris shrugs. He’d like to ask Craig and check with him that it’s fine and dandy and they can fuck like feral rabbits, but apparently he never clues in on what he’s doing until after. Besides, he’s always been told it’s easier to ask for forgiveness. 

**Author's Note:**

> The bruises around his neck are so clearly finger shaped, they get him a talk from Shawn, a long talk, a really fucking long talk that makes him re-examine all his life choices.
> 
> There are no comments about his fat lip. He’s kinda thankful the other bruises are easier to hide. They really look like he got mauled by a cat. 
> 
> He walks funny for a few days and gets to endure comments from everyone, and another talk with Shawn, who obviously hasn't come to the conclusion that the two lectures should in fact be connected. And Chris fervently hopes nobody clues him on, that’s one lecture he can do without.
> 
> Craig doesn't talk to him, even more intensely than usual. Nobody notices anything. Chris ends up sucking his dick a lot more than usual, he doesn't see how that's supposed to be a deterrent from anything really. Especially with how the face fucking's all about not breathing and yep, still into that like a truck.


End file.
